Nights In London
by The Nameless Stranger
Summary: A series of short stories, staring the great detective and his -also great!Haha- friend Dr.Watson. They are somehow depressing so far, but I intend to write sth happy too. Enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

**Nights In London **(story no.1)

_Hello! This is my first Sherlock Holmes story :) More short fics are going to be included in the story as well, in the future. _**I don't own Sherlock Holmes in any way, but the fics/ideas/words belong to me, so please do not use! **_Anyway, enjoy~_

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><p>''Holmes, stop it.''<p>

I looked at the crouched figure of my friend through the dim-lighted room and the asphyxiating fog from his long-forgotten pipe on the table. His black-haired head snapped up abruptly and looked back at me, the daze from the substance he had been taking evident in his expression, clouding his keen grey eyes. I solemnly wondered what it was this time; cocaine, the infamous 7% solution, or morphine, or something entirely new, more...''stimulating to the brain'' as he had once stated, describing the drugs' effects with an excited voice.

He was looking at me with a slightly perplexed, or maybe even surprised expression (so unlike to find on his features), for I had not commented on this habit of his for a long time, I'd just put on a frown and stay silent.

''And why is that...'', he started, ''...my dear Watson?'', he added with a crooked and definitely dazed, yet polite smile.

''The doctor has finally reacted?''

I scowled. Now he was mocking me, while I was concerned about his health. What did I do to deserve such a treatment? Had I turned Lestrade all of a sudden?

''That's right'', I answered. ''Would you please stop?'', I asked. My voice was uncharacteristically husky from all the smoke I'd been breathing, and noticing it, I stood up and threw the pipe in the bin. This alarmed Holmes, who gave me a half-annoyed, half-amused glare. Then, moving towards him, I made an attempt at taking the drug from him, but he weakly swayed my invading hand away.

I tried again, but this time he was far more determined to stop me. In a moment of sudden weakness, I found myself turned towards the side of the fireplace, with both my arms held tightly at my backside by Holmes. I was surprised; although I knew the reason why I had not reacted however keen my reflexes were; Indeed, it was as clear as day to us both. I'd never hit my friend while he was in such a state, and he knew it as well. I sighed deeply as he relaxed his hold and released me, mumbling an almost inaudible

''I need them John'' .

A second strike of surprise hit me as he, for probably the first time used my (first) name rather that his usual ''Watson'', ''my dear Watson'', or any other syntheses. I guess he opens up more easily when in a vulnerable state such as this. However, the thought that, maybe, what he had just said was true was nagging my already worried mind. Indeed, the drugs were calming his ever-restless mind, and were helping him think. Would I be doing the horrible mistake of destroying a genius if I put an end to this habit? Or would I be helping a friend in need?

''Sherlock'', I started, following his example, ''you do not need those drugs to solve cases...''

''No my dear, I do, at least subconsciously. I've said so again Watson, have I not made myself clear? Drugs act as a stimulant to my mind. I can't stand the awful routine and stagnant waters; And no-one, including you, doctor, can insist on the wrongness of one of my theories. It's...flawless.''

''As it is harmful! Please Homes, if you just listen...''

''This discussion is over, I believe'', he simply stated nonchalantly, with this unnerving-there's more to say-manner, and he languidly turned his back on me, retaking his seat next to the fireplace, the crackling fire making him seem almost like some sort of ghost.

Furious as I was, both with him and myself, I kept gaping like a goldfish for a few seconds, sighed softly, and wordlessly withdrew from the fight I had seemingly lost. Then, I made my way to the bedroom with heavy steps and an even heavier heart. It's true I was never the kind of person who talks much, I'm more of a man of action, as Holmes himself remarks quite often during our adventures. And I was bend on helping my dear friend, so no-one, not even the detective himself would make me cease trying.

''I'm prove you wrong this time Holmes...'', I quietly muttered to myself and opened the door to my room.

''Lights out!'' Holmes was was heard saying, rather loudly, from across the living room. Ms Hudson

obeyed his command as was her duty to do, and soon the whole apartment was drowned in darkness.

Just before I drift off, I swear I'd heard the soft, regretful tune of a violin.


	2. Chapter 2

_Second story. They're not in chronological order, mind the way, some readers had pointed out that my last SH story 's writing style resembled the canon.(thanks :3) here, I've tried to give a more emotional, poetic hue to the whole thing. The story/words/ideas belong to me, SH to Conan Doyle. Now..."doctor's log..."-ok ok I'm sorry :)_

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><p><em>One.<em>

_Two._

_Three._

I am counting in my mind the seconds passing. What's the point though to do so, when each and every one of them feels like and aeon?

I close my sore eyes briefly, but what I'm feeling isn't peace, it is everything but peace. It is a slow, quiet torture, I thought, as _those _cursed moments play again and again behind my closed eyelids making me re-feel all the pain from the start.

_The nervous eyes, always looking out for any signs of the man on our tracks. The waterfall, that looked like a gateway to hell itself, with the violent waters and sharp rocks. The messenger boy...the one that he knew was fake but did not utter a word, true to his duty to kill the criminal mastermind, or be killed. The memory, as I last set my eyes upon him, of his tall, lean frame, an expression of longing, keenness, and steel determination. And then the horror flooding my heart when all was revealed..._

I had just come back from the Scotland Yard offices, where I had told them what had happened, my voice trailing and cracking. Gregson, Lestrade, along with the other respectable policemen had stood still for a moment, expression blank and eyes hollow, lips motionless, bowing their heads to the loss of one that would always be better at them, a hero.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid to brake the silence,one by one had offered their sincere condolences to me, for they knew what great love and respect I held for the man. They were properly accepted, with a nod and the ghost of a smile from my part, which had nothing to do with joy. It had merely existed for the split of a second to conceal overwhelming feelings, to hide the trembling hands clasped behind my back. Then, with a hasty excuse and a courteous bow, I turned to leave and headed to my own home, for the trip from Switzerland was long and had tire me immensely and I desperately needed to rest. Nevertheless, the moment I entered the hansom, I found myself uttering "Baker Street. Take me to baker Street."

The driver had looked at my dishevelled appearance with concern mixed with slight annoyance, because I would be taking him out of his way, but he just nodded curtly and complied.

"Aye Sir. Baker Street is is, then."

I blink my eyes spasmodically several times, for I do not wish to cry, not when I should stay firm. _But_, I thought,_ what's stopping me? I'm all alone anyway._

I look around the now desolate room, shadows of the past haunting me wherever my sight falls upon, challenging me to notice them. And alas, they trigger back memories that should have remained untouched, for there would be no cheerful, new ones to take their place.

Tears finally escape my stubborn eyelids that had once again firmly closed to prevent exactly this from happening.

_Five._

_Six._

_Seven._

The number reminds me of him. His nasty habit, the 7percent solution, the way I'd look at him disapprovingly whenever he indulged in it. And the last time, the last time I had protested. And he had said nothing.

Nothing.

_Eight._

_Nine._

_Ten._

Are we still on 'ten'? I've lost the track of time. My tears are still running freely, fact not at all proper for a man such as me. The stains on my best vest show that all very clearly.

At least, I console myself, Moriarty, the worst criminal threat that ever stood in shoe leather, was gone, and millions of lives will be saved. And I'm alive, am I not?

But he isn't.

And what am I without him?

Doctor, war veteran, orphan, Sherlock Holmes' (only) friend and partner, jokingly described as "Holmes' historian", as well. I do not mind though, for I have worked hard to earn the title, and he always respected that. That's what I was, that's what I am.

But I will never be the same. Nothing is ever going to be the same. The tragedy at the falls has opened a scar in my very soul, and I doubt I'll recover any time soon. What an irony for a doctor, what great sarcasm for a soldier. Because I've witnessed, and even been held responsible for the death of people at both places, in war and on the surgery table, yet experiencing the certain death of my dear friend is something with a complete different hue altogether. And far more awful.

I clench Holmes' letter in my fist, shaking a little as I bring in mind the words that have been written on the overused parchment that is my heart:

" _...and believe me to be, my dear fellow,_

_very sincerely yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes._ "

I decide that, along with my memories of this place, of our friendship, and the events of my life with my beloved wife, these will be of the few lines written in gold.

Slowly, supporting on my cane, I sit up and walk towards the door, because it's unbearable to be inside this ghost-filled place any longer, at least for now. My footsteps are heavy, and, looking back, I wonder if I'll ever enter this room gain.

Number 22IB, Baker Street.

Strangely enough though, I feel a thin, desperate ray of hope struggling to get to the surface, somewhere at the back of my heart, and I believe this is supporting me, keeping me from braking down. Maybe it is foolish, I do not know, for after all I'd read Holmes' own letter, and saw with my own eyes the unmistakable evidence of what had happened. But human sight can be deceiving, at least I'd learned that from my working with the great detective, whom I had the privilege to know so intimately.

But for now, I close the door behind me and don't look back. And for the time being, the only thing I can do is mourn for a lost friend and...

move on.

_John Watson, 5th of May, 1891._


End file.
